Bathroom Break
by qwertygal
Summary: He sounded...in pain. She was about to ask him if he was alright...and then remembered. She couldn't talk to him-she couldn't trust herself. Spoilers up to and including S2E4.


_Spoilers: Up to S2E4, including the "next time on" preview for S2E5 that was shown at the end of S2E4….everything else is all spec._

 _A/N 1: See what you've done to me Timeless? I know longer know how to categorize my fics. Is it "friendship", is it "romance"? Who the heck knows anymore? I figured I was pretty safe with "angst" though. *shrug*_

 _A/N 2: I really have no idea where this came from. I had no intention of writing any of this….but I've been imagining that Lucy will be doing everything in her power to avoid being anywhere near Wyatt….and yet, they *need* to talk. They somehow have to find their way back to their connection again. I doubt that the show has any time to cover these types of conversations, what with all the time travel and adventure and chasing, and apparent pre-POTUS kidnapping….so I decided I had better write it, rather than have it continue to drive me crazy…. and this is what happened._

 _Takes place 10 days after S2E4. We'll just pretend RH is taking it easy on them while they plan nefarious things-there has been no jumping going on during this time._

* * *

Bathroom Break

She shuffled along the corridor, holding her aching arm. Doing everything should could not to notice. Not to not notice the pain—but to not notice him. But that was the problem. He was everywhere. The doorway he had leaned against, that first day back from 1918, asking if anyone had given her the 'grand tour' yet; the alcove where she was when he had called to her to wait—and then wrapped his blanket around her, because she had complained she was cold; and the corridor by the fans, where they had talked….until he had received that text. In addition to trying not to notice, she also did everything she could to try not to think. Not think about his eyes; not think about the feel of his embrace; not think about his lips; and definitely not think about his hands—how those hands helped her, brought her comfort, how they were able to bring her….no—she was not going to think about that. The last ten days had passed in a haze—trying to decipher Nicholas' next step; trying to find a way to sleep; trying to remember to eat; and trying to avoid him. Because he was doing the right thing—and wasn't that even what she encouraged him to do? So she couldn't very well complain about it. So she was doing the right thing too. But, if that was the case….then why was this so hard? An unwelcome voice pushed its way through her subconscious, "Whoever said that 'easy' and 'right' were the same thing?"

She stopped for a moment, rubbing first at her arm, and then at her forehead. She huffed out a breath, and started walking again. It was all a mess. And it served her right, letting things….letting herself….get completely out of control like that. She would get through this, she had to. She had to survive—and maintain her sanity—until she found a way to stop Rittenhouse. That was all that mattered. But how would she ever be able to do that? Another voice floated through her mind. She didn't push this voice away—instead she indulged herself by embracing it. "It's one problem at a time". Because that was the truth. And right now? Her problem was that she had to pee.

She continued along the corridor, until she reached the bathroom door, and gave it a push. It struck something, refusing to open. Stupid chair.

A growled voice came from the other side of the door: "Be out in a minute!"

"Wyatt?" the name escaped her lips before she could stop herself—his voice was….strained. He sounded….in pain. She was about to ask him if he was alright….and then remembered. _She couldn't talk to him—she couldn't trust herself._ Then his voice came again, quieter, softer, but no less devastating….no less a siren to her soul….and therefore she knew, no less dangerous.

"Lucy?"

 _You're being stupid_ , she told herself. You can't keep avoiding him, you live with him. _Nowhere to go but down_.

So she sighed, "Yeah."

"You….ah, you need the bathroom?"

Fully aware of the ridiculousness of the question….of this whole conversation….it was as though she had no ability to stop herself. "Uh, yeah. I….need to pee."

There was silence for a moment from the other side, then, "Okay—I'll….come out….give me a second."

There was still something wrong, in his voice. And whether or not it was a good idea….she needed to know….needed to know if he was okay. She put her hand on the door. "Wyatt, can I come in?" she pushed, to see if the chair was still in place.

There was a yelp from the other side: "Lucy!"

"Sorry—the chair…."

"No chair," he mumbled. "You alone?"

She glanced behind her at the open corridor. "Yeah….I mean, generally speaking….i prefer to pee alone."

There was a scrambling noise on the other side of the door—someone standing? And then it opened a small amount.

"Come in."

She entered hesitantly into what seemed like an empty room—he was standing behind the door, blocked from her view. She heard his voice then.

"Just need to clean up….then I'll be out of your hair." He stepped around her, letting the door swing shut. His back was to her now, as he headed to the sink. She still couldn't see his face—but she needed to. There was still something wrong with his voice.

Her fingertips grazed his elbow, but then she pulled back….remembering. She took another step away from him, before allowing herself to ask, "What's wrong?"

He turned to her slowly, finally meeting her eyes.

 _He'd been crying_. Those blue eyes….filled and surrounded by red, a few stray tears still stuck to the hairs along his jaw.

She wanted to gasp, to race toward him, to wrap him in her embrace, and never let go….but she couldn't. She searched his face, then turned her gaze to the room around her….it was safer, more easily controllable, if she didn't look at him. He was silent….but she was still somehow aware that he was staring at her. Then she spied the chair against the far wall.

"You weren't….using the chair?"

He shook his head.

"Then….what did I hit….when I tried to open the door….the two times?"

He gave the tiniest of smiles. "Me. Both times. I was sitting, in front of the door….thinking."

She nodded. "Oh."

She watched as he sighed, covering his face in his hands. Her heart was breaking just watching….and she didn't know if it was for him, or for her….and there was a part of her that couldn't even identify a difference between the two things….not anymore. _She should leave_. He wanted to be alone, that's why he came here. _She was intruding_. The thoughts rushed into her brain, circling, vying for her attention. _Just open the door and leave._ The thoughts then coalesced into a trumpeted fanfare. _This will only hurt_.

But instead of turning, of running, instead of self-protection….another thought seized control. He needed someone right now. _And that couldn't possibly be her_. And she needed someone right now. _And that couldn't possibly be him_. Not when he was the reason she needed someone, not when she was no doubt a part of the reason _he_ needed someone. But….stranger things had happened. _Like dead wives returning to life because of time travel, for instance_. So she allowed that other thought to take control. And she sat, her back to the door, legs crossed in front of her.

He had moved his hands back to his sides by then, and she watched, as he opened his eyes. He seemed surprised at her change in position. "What….what are you doing?"

"Maybe I wanted some thinking time too." She motioned to the ground beside her with her chin. "If you're….not done thinking yet….you could join me."

He stared at her. He must think she'd gone insane. And maybe he wouldn't be far off the truth to think that—because what the hell was she doing? But how long had it been anyway since she'd felt in her right mind? Insanity was truly just a matter of degrees after all….and she was far enough along by now….what more damage could this one decision really do? She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the suddenly gathering tears away. When she opened her eyes, she saw him jerk his head in a nodded acceptance….and then come to sit beside her, his back also to the door. Less than a foot between them. It might as well have been a mile.

The silence continued. _Had they completely lost the ability to speak to each other?_ She turned over several thought in her mind, several things that she could say, questions she could ask….but all seemed either inconsequential or ridiculous. Then he shifted beside her, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Then he spoke.

"I never…..imagined….would be this hard. It's not supposed to be….is it? Sometimes….I think she hates me."

 _No, this wasn't happening, she couldn't handle this conversation….not with him, not right now_ …. But then she was forming the words, without even thinking them first...and they were coming out in a rush.

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you." Then, more softly, she added, "There's no way that she hates you."

She dared to glance at his face, for the first time since he'd sat down. Eyes still rimmed in red, and yet—the corners of his mouth tugged upward.

"You're sure about that, are you?"

"I…." _she needed to stop this conversation right now_ , yet the words kept coming, "I mean….has she told you she hates you?"

He actually laughed. A short strained bark….sounding more of agony than joy. "No, she hasn't told me that. She tells me she'll keep an open mind, see if I can convince her….." he sighed again. "When she's not yelling at me."

He turned and looked at her, blue eyes meeting hers. And, in that instant, she wasn't sure what would happen—although her mind supplied any number of horrible consequences—but there was nothing. It was just Wyatt, looking at Lucy. Wyatt looking at _her_. She bit her lower lip.

"So," he broke the eye contact, leaning his head back against the door. "Did the whole bunker hear our fight?"

She didn't want to answer, it would wreck him….but silence was as good as a confession between them….it always had been.

He snorted.

She couldn't leave it there….couldn't let him think the worst…. "We were all in the common area, on those awful couches. There was a video playing, but…."

"But?"

She shook her head, and continued, "But we could still hear that Jessica was….upset. That she was yelling."

He shook his head.

"But we couldn't hear the actual words….nobody knew what it was about."

She watched him then, as he put his hands over his face.

"Of course. Nothing like having a fight with your…..wife, in public."

She should just agree and change the subject….and get the heck out of here…..before she did something she'd regret….before she allowed herself to _feel_ something that she'd regret…..something that would cause more pain. _And hadn't she had enough of pain?_ But more words came pouring out, causing a thread of fear to move through her….because it felt like she had once again lost control.

"Was it really a fight?"

"What?" he raised his head, and she could see his eyes again.

"I mean…." she faltered, unsure of herself….but he was gazing at her, as though looking for….something. His forehead creased as he seemed to look at her harder—or rather, not looking, but longing for….something. And on the off chance that she could help….well, she had to try. "We….well….I never heard you yell back. Not once. So, it seemed kinda too one-sided, to be a fight….more like a dressing-down."

The emotion previously etched in his face seemed suddenly gone. He shrugged. "It was. She was right, so there was nothing for me to say."

"What happened?"

He looked at her, almost curious. He chewed at his lip for a moment, and then nodded, as though having made a decision.

"You know that Christopher hasn't let her contact anyone on the outside. It's caused some…..problems. The day after she….after I brought her down here, her coworkers reported her missing….told the authorities she was last seen on her way to see me, and that the two of us had….issues. I guess it got the authorities pretty suspicious."

"Oh…..shit."

He nodded. "Christopher fixed it all…..made it so that everyone knew that Jess had left of her own free will….but…."

"But?"

He sighed. "She got a text form her boss today...saying he was firing her for missing so much time...and…." He pushed his head back against the door again. "Jess just kinda lost it."

"Because she was fired?"

"Yeah—that and….other things. I mean…..she was _right_ , Lucy. I pulled her into all of this, not thinking…. Not thinking about anything, other than fixing what had gone wrong with us. Not thinking that….this would change her whole life….and maybe she didn't want it changed. Not thinking about her. My decision to bring her down here….it's wrecked everything that was important to her….and that wasn't up to me, was it? Just because I had to prove I was a different person…." he trailed off, stretching one of his legs out in front of him, then slamming the wall with his fist in frustration.

"Wyatt…."

He shook his head. "So I try to prove to her I'm not the same selfish asshole she hated….by being a different kind of selfish asshole."

"Wyatt, you were still in shock, when you brought her down here. You weren't trying to be selfish."

"Well," he gave another dark bark of laughter. "Pretty sure that depends on your point of view. I mean….yeah….I've been trying to build our relationship back up….fix it….it's like you said—now that I have time to change it. But….it's like, the harder I try, the bigger of a mess I make."

He looked at her suddenly, as though only just remembering something. "I'm so sorry Luce….you don't need to listen to this."

He was right. She didn't need to listen….and she probably shouldn't listen. And who knew what the hell was wrong with her, because then she opened her mouth and said, "I want to." She had said so softly, it was nearly a whisper. She cleared her throat, and said a bit louder, "Have you talked to her, told her how you're feeling….told her that you're sorry for some of the things that have happened in the past, even the very recent past, but tried to explain why—to explain to her what you want?"

He stared at her.

She stared right back.

"No."

"Why not?"

He sighed. "She wouldn't listen….not when she gets like this….I mean, I know her." He shook his head, then dropped his own voice to nearly a whisper, "Or….I think the problem is that I used to know her."

She looked at him, he was staring off at the far corner of the room….no doubt a million miles away….far from this bunker. _And she desperately wanted to be wherever he was….to be with him_. But she couldn't be with him. Because his wife was alive, and his wife was with him….and so she had to support him….her dearest friend….in all of this.

He startled her when he spoke again, his voice sharp with bitterness. "Sometimes I feel like, no matter what I do lately, everything just turns to shit."

"Oh, so that's why you chose this room."

He looked at her then and smiled...but the smile never truly reached his eyes. Then the smile slipped from his face and he shifted again, leaning heavier against the door. He turned his head away from her.

"You wanna know the worst of it?"

 _She found it hard to imagine anything worse than her current experience_. "What?"

"When I was sitting here….earlier. I really _was_ just thinking….but then this….thought….this horrible thought just flitted into my mind."

He went silent again, as though he was done talking.

"What thought?"

He wasn't looking at her. And just when she'd decided that he was done talking to her, he suddenly said:

"I found myself wishing that things could go back to how they were….before."

She wondered if he could hear the thudding of her heart.

"Can you imagine?" his voice broke. She heard him gulp a breath, and he continued, "I actually _thought_ that."

His tears were coming again, and without even knowing why, she was crying too.

"Six years. Six years of regret, of dreaming, of hoping when it was impossible, and planning when it became merely….improbable. All that time. And it finally happens, she's finally back. She's here. She's alive." His chin dropped to his chest. His mouth was still moving, but nothing was coming out, and then, "She's alive again, and I have another chance….and I wish it all away." he choked out.

"Wyatt," she whispered. Now it was her turn to be unsuccessful in making words. Yet, she couldn't let him torture himself with that….he didn't deserve that, no one deserved that. She took a breath, her voice stronger. "It was a passing thought because you were upset….because you were emotional….because you're exhausted….and tired of living in a fish bowl where your only hope of getting away from it all is to run to the bathroom. It doesn't _mean_ anything….it doesn't mean you really want to go backward. I mean, how would you feel, if you woke up tomorrow and everything had changed, and she wasn't here?"

He exhaled harshly. "If Jess was gone from time again….or if something happened to her again? I'd be….destroyed."

"There." She said calmly, _as her heart was ripped a little wider open_. "It was just a passing over-emotional thought….nothing more….nothing….important." She stretched her legs out in front of her. "You wouldn't believe the number of times a day that I have a passing thought wishing that my mother had never been born…." She trailed off then, wondering if she had said too much. She took in a breath, "But that doesn't mean anything, either."

"Lucy."

He was looking at her again, earnestness in his face that made her want to move closer to him….but she didn't dare. There were still a handful of tears clinging to his lashes. I was as she was looking at him—wondering at the glimmer of light and sparkle the tears left in his eyes—wondering how such misery could produce something beautiful—when he went and did it. He did the one thing that after all her loss— _all her heartache_ —the one thing that somehow still had the power to shatter her into a million pieces. He reached for her, and grabbed her hand.

She looked at their hands, and then back up at him, knowing her eyes were too wide, knowing that her hand was shaking too much. She went to pull away, but he only squeezed her hand harder.

"I know it's a struggle…..with your mother. And I know….everything else….me, I mean…..has only made it worse. I don't pretend to understand what is driving your mother to be with them….but you have to know that has nothing to do with you, right? And even if your thoughts about Carol are passing and mean nothing….I need you to hear that I'm glad Carol Preston was born. Because if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have you."

His thumb was moving in circles on her hand, _and was he even aware of it, when he did that_? _Aware of the effect it had on her_? There were more tears in his eyes than there had been, as he continued.

"And all of this...everything that's happening now….it doesn't change those things I told you by that pool Luce. I don't' know what I would have done, what I would do….without you."

Her breath caught. For a moment it was as though she couldn't breathe, couldn't think—her whole reality became a memory of that night—that guesthouse—playing on some kind of infinity loop. _And she had to get out of here_. But he was still holding her hand.

She blew out her breath, trying to centre herself, trying to protect herself….as a new stray thought crossed her mind. Maybe her next book could be on self-preservation techniques for broken hearts….and how did that line up with any future she had ever imagined for herself….and it would certainly disappoint her mother. But somehow, the ridiculous thought did the trick—it broke the spell he had her under...and she laughed.

And he released her hand in surprise.

"You make it sound like that's a good thing….but I'm pretty sure my being around is making everything for you and Jessica….harder. Wouldn't it be easier if—"

"Don't." he said, grabbing her hand again.

"Don't what?" she asked, half-heartedly trying to retrieve her hand—but he was having none of it, holding her tight. And the truth was she didn't really want to try to break the contact, anyway.

"Don't tell me that I should regret….us."

She chewed at her lower lip, and looked at the far corner of the room. Anywhere other than at him. "Well..." she said, eventually, "Don't you?"

"Lucy."

She winced, his voice sounded so strangled…..

"Lucy," he said her name again, and she forcibly pulled her gaze back to his face as she tugged her hand from his grasp as a mental counter-balance.

"I know this is….horrible….and I know you're hurting….and I'm hurting so bad too, Luce….but I could never….I _will_ never, regret anything about us."

And there it was. The answer to the question she had been afraid to even think for ten days. "But, it would be easier…." She began to argue—but even she could hear how weak, how hollow the statement sounded.

"Do you regret it?" he asked, his voice suddenly steadier than it had been since their conversation began.

She pulled her knees up, arms crossed over them, head dropping to her arms. She squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what she _should_ say—knew what she needed to say. Because she _knew_ him. And if she responded yes to his question….it would be the right thing to say….it would give him permission to release some of the pain he was holding onto. And just maybe….to help her move on from her own pain. But the problem was, saying that word? It would be a lie.

"Luce," his voice sounded like steel, as though it was echoing through the bathroom—through the whole damn bunker. "Do you regret….us?"

She shook her head in her arms. "No." she whispered. There was silence from him. She lifted her head slightly, just to see his reaction, just in time to see his hand reaching out toward her, cupping her cheek.

"Pardon?" he was nearly whispering again.

 _Damn this….being honest….this wasn't going to work….it wouldn't keep the pain away_ ….but she couldn't lie to him, not about this. "No...I don't regret it….never." She drew her head back from his hand then, hating the loss of contact, but knowing it was what she had to do. Because, allowing that to continue right now would be….dangerous.

His gaze immediately met hers again, as though he was compelled to replace the loss of physical contact with some other kind of contact. Or perhaps she was the one who was compelled to replace it?

"No regrets." he breathed.

"No regrets." she said.

They sat that way for a moment….bodies separated, eyes maintaining a tenuous connection. And hearts? She allowed herself to wonder….what of their hearts?

Without warning, he suddenly broke their eye contact, his gaze drawn toward the bandage wrapped around her left arm.

"How….how is it?"

She shrugged.

He chewed at his lip. "How did it happen?"

She pursed her lips. "It doesn't matter."

"It does to me," he whispered.

She shook her head. No way was she going there….to Salem….not tonight. Wasn't her mind already screwed up enough?

Wyatt was still looking at her, chewing at his lip.

She sighed, "There something else you want to ask?"

He exhaled audibly. "How….how was Flynn, on the mission?"

She opened her mouth, about to say 'fine', when she looked at him again, and realized his face was etched in pain. So she paused, wondering what to say, and settling on, "I don't trust him….not like I trust you."

He nodded again, and she thought she saw a hint of wetness in his eyes.

"I...I'm so sorry." he said.

And the plaintive tone in his voice threatened to tear her heart completely in two…. _and she wouldn't allow that_. "Wyatt….don't apologise to me….please." she said, willing her voice to stay level….to stay detached.

But he didn't seem to notice. Instead he continued, his voice breaking on nearly every word. "I….I wouldn't have been able to live with myself….if you'd been hanged."

"Wyatt." she shook her head at the implication in his statement.

"I mean it Lucy….if anything had happened to you….I couldn't have—"

She cut him off, unable to listen further. "You're being overly-dramatic Wyatt, you do have access to a time machine, you know. You would have fixed it….if anything had happened to me, you would have just had Rufus take you back a couple days earlier and leave you there….and then you would have fixed it….and saved me. And then we would have all come back in the Lifeboat….or maybe left Flynn behind. You know," she shrugged, "Depending."

He shook his head, his eyes wide in amazement. "So….you've thought about this?"

She shrugged. "There's lots of thinking time, in a Puritan prison. But mostly, I just know _you_ Wyatt….and I know you wouldn't have just lost hope like that….just like you didn't lose hope when Rittenhouse had me."

"Still—the risks…I mean, I would have only had one chance at it, to save you….."

"You would have fixed it." she said, her tone leaving no more room for argument. He was quiet then, perhaps lost in his own thoughts. She wouldn't let him worry about those what ifs. She was safe, and she wouldn't let him torture himself with that image of her….and the noose….and she wouldn't let herself dwell on that, either. Because she believed what she had said to him—that Wyatt Logan wouldn't have lost hope in her. And she wouldn't lose hope in him. But his reminder of that recent mission made her think back….to before the jump….the phone call that had changed everything. There was something else he needed to know.

She shifted, crossing her legs again, resting the back of her head against the door. How was she supposed to do this? _Just tell him_ , her mind supplied.

"I….lied to you. On the phone….when you asked me if the Mothership had jumped."

"I know." he replied, simply.

"You do?"

He nodded. "The time stamp, on the mission report."

"You saw the report?"

"I asked Christopher if I could read it."

"But then….you already knew….about my arm, about Flynn."

He shook his head. "I knew what the report said. I didn't know what you said. What your perspective was. And that's all I really cared about."

She nodded, slowly.

"Why?" he asked, catching her eyes in his gaze again.

She sighed. "I….i didn't want to be a….distraction….any more than I already was….this….Jessica….it's everything you've ever wanted."

"So it wasn't that you didn't trust me….after I took off like that? Which….I never should have done, by the way."

That took her aback. "No! I could never not trust you….and especially after you told me why you left. I understood Wyatt. And I understood that you needed to be with your wife—that was who needed you….and who you needed to be with. And, it still is." her voice wavered, without her permission. "I know you said there's….problems with the two of you….but I also know you can fix them."

"Can I?" He looked down at his hand….at his ring. "Jess….she already has divorce papers, Luce….drawn up and signed."

"Oh." she didn't know….and had no idea how to reconcile those words he had just said with any kind of reality that she understood. "But…..you're different than….than that other you….you won't make the same mistakes. She'll see that."

"Lucy." She watched as he squeezed his eyes shut tight, and then relaxed slightly. "I know you're trying to help….I know…..and this is such a mess….but, when you talk like that…..it just makes it harder."

"Talk like what?"

"Like you're a cheerleader for my marriage."

"But….why?"

"Why? Why does it make it harder?" he looked thoroughly confused. "What? It's….because….because you shouldn't have to…..because I'm the jerk that did this to you, and you shouldn't be encouraging it, you should be….I don't know….throwing things at me, or something."

She briefly allowed herself the luxury of visualizing doing just that—throwing dishes, and vases, and….lamps at his head….if only that were all it would take to make this all better….all it would take to make her _feel_ better.

She shook her head. "Wyatt, you didn't do this."

"Well it sure the hell isn't your fault."

"No….but…..it's no one's fault….it just happened. And we have to deal with it…. And that means I have to encourage you...and Jessica….because I can't bear to do anything else."

She couldn't meet his eyes….not after that. So she closed hers, just to make sure. She felt, more than heard that he had moved then….how he moved so silently, she would never understand. But a moment later, when she chanced to open her eyes again, she confirmed that she had been right. He was on the opposite side of the room now, standing by the sink, staring into the mirror. He turned the water on, splashing it on his face, clearing away the remnants of his tears. _So that no one else would ever know that Wyatt Logan had such emotions_. _No one else but her_. And what made her so lucky, or so unlucky, for him to choose her? For him to be so honest with her? The water was still running. He was still staring in that mirror. She stood, carefully. Not to close the distance between them, but to allow for them to be on the same level, once again.

"Are you okay?"

He startled, as though he had somehow forgotten that she was there.

"Yeah," he said after a moment, voice somewhat shaky. He splashed more water on his face, then turned off the tap, and turned to face her. "That's the most words we've said to each other in….a long time."

"Since 1941?" she offered, even though her traitorous brain reminded her that they probably had spoken fewer words, that night.

He nodded. "I miss….talking to you, Lucy. But," he ducked his head, staring at his shoes. "It still hurt to talk to you, too."

She nodded, yet took a step back from him. "It hurts me too….to talk to you."

"See?" he ran his hands though his hair, his voice nearly hoarse. "That's why we can't….you….you've been hurt enough….I can't hurt you more."

"But, then….what is this Wyatt? What we're doing right now. Does this hurt?"

"Yes," he said.

She spun away from him, facing the door. Then she closed her eyes. "How did we get so good at this?"

"At what?"

She felt him take a step toward her again. This push and pull….it was maddening…. _and it was like she was losing control all over again_.

"Hurting each other." She took a breath, and forced herself to take back the reigns, to regain control. He hurt her. She hurt him. They hurt each other…. _and where was this ever going to get them_?

"Lucy—I never wanted to hurt you….not ever."

She shook her head. "And I never wanted to hurt you….yet here we are."

He walked toward her, closing distance until he was only a few feet away. She hated the way her body—her mind—betrayed her when he was this close. She shouldn't care….she couldn't….but he was here, and he was real…. _and he didn't regret her_. She forced the thought away, about to evict it from her brain forever, until she surprised herself by relenting, and instead stashing the thought in a dark corner of her brain, tucked away—where she hoped it couldn't hurt her—but perhaps could help to make her stronger. And she needed to be stronger.

She heard him sigh. "I hate not talking to you Lucy….but I don't want to hurt you anymore. And this….avoiding each other….this forced ignoring of each other….it's driving me crazy. But I want….I think maybe I even need you still….as my friend….is that so impossible?"

Her mind screamed that it was. But then she whispered, "No….not impossible." And then she nodded, silently. His words, his kindness, his trust in her….and those eyes to his soul….it was all too much. Her precious control was slipping through her fingers again. And the harder she squeezed to contain it, the faster it ran through her fingers….until she knew that, when the time came that he would try to open her hand….it would be empty….all of the control once again gone.

He was still looking at her, as though she somehow held the key. She closed her eyes. _This was a terrible idea...friendship...she couldn't control it, she would be vulnerable again_ ….she wouldn't allow it. She opened her eyes and her gaze caught his….and she felt her resolve crumble. Because all the safe-guards, all the fences….everything she had been building so carefully over the past ten days….in this dank bunker bathroom….broke. Because she needed him too….she needed his friendship. And she wanted to explain it to him, explain everything—but instead she merely sighed. "If we're going to try….to be friends….then I have some stipulations."

He nodded.

"Maybe there are some things that we could talk about….without hurting each other so much. Like….safe topics."

He smirked lightly, "Like all the ways that Rufus annoys us, or what a bad cook Connor Mason is?"

She nodded. "Yeah….exactly like that. I think I'd be okay…..talking to you again….about things like that."

He took another step toward her, nodding thoughtfully. "But that means….there's still things that you aren't comfortable talking about."

She nodded.

He swung his arm around, grasping her hand again. "I'm gonna just take a guess here….but things like this entire conversation?"

"Pretty much."

He nodded again. "That makes sense….I mean….I don't think I can take conversations like tonight all that often either….but I know I can't take not talking to you." Still holding her hand, he took yet took a step closer. "So….I propose a….safe word, or something like that."

"What?"

"A safe-word. If we're in the middle of a conversation about….anything….and one of us feels uncomfortable for any reason….we just….say the word. And we stop the conversation, or change the subject. No judgement by the other. There can't be….any judgement….or this won't work."

She appraised him, half expecting him to laugh, to smirk….to _something_. But he just stood there….looking earnest. "So," she began. "What do you suggest as a safe word?"

"What?" he asked, "I don't know.

"Closed time-like curve? Weapon of choice?"

"Pretty sure those are phrases, not words."

"Fine. Cognac then? Or capacitor? Or…." she smiled at him then, "….or chocodiles."

He shook his head. "Sure, 'cause you could totally work 'chocodiles' into a conversation, if you needed to? If there were other people listening?"

"Absolutely."

And there was the smirk. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

But she ignored him….and his adorable smirk….and pushed ahead. "Or what about we just say that we're _fine_ , when we need to change the subject?"

He nodded, the smirk gone from his face.

"And there's something else, too," she said, knowing she was no doubt about to break her own heart with her next words. "We can't do….this," she glanced down at her hand in his.

He received her message immediately, and released her hand. "Right, sorry."

"So….friends. And we talk about….safe things."

He nodded, and flashed her a warm smile. "So, things like the total opposite of this conversation?"

'Yeah." She matched his smile, but something in that simple gesture, that kind smile…. _it started tearing her apart again_. And how could she ever make this work? Yet she had to….a world without Wyatt as her friend? She knew instinctively that would _never_ work….so, no matter how hard this felt….this _friendship_... she had to make it work. She took a deep breath, "Do you think...can we get through this….as friends?"

"I hope so."

An anxiety she didn't recognize as her own began to fill her chest. "But, I don't know….don't know where to start."

He shrugged. "Well….i suppose it's one step at a time."

"Oh, is it?" she asked, a slight smile returning to her lips.

He nodded, an earnest expression on his face. "And then we make it up as we go."

Her smile grew. "Of course we do." And it was almost like before— _and she even let her heart pretend, just for a moment_ —except it wasn't just like before. It couldn't be. It wouldn't be. And she knew she needed to protect herself….protect her heart….but the truth was, she didn't want to. _But she should still try_. She took in a deep breath. "It's getting late, I guess. I mean….you should go talk to Jessica….not going to bed angry….and all those things."

He snorted. "Apparently you know Jess even less than I do. Because I can promise you….she does not want to see me tonight. She—she'll be calmer...more ready to talk it out, in the morning."

She nodded at him. "Well, maybe I'm not ready for bed yet. Remind me how we do this friend thing?"

"How 'bout we start by me buying you a drink?

"A drink? And where do you propose we go, to get said drink?"

"Oh," he said, "I know this great place…..the Chez Cockroach Bunker Kitchen."

"Ohhh," she said, "Sounds swanky."

And he laughed.

And she giggled, just a bit. "Just one problem."

"What's that?"

"I still have to pee."

He tilted his head to the side. "That's a small problem."

"Small problem?"

"Tiny problem."

"Tiny problem?"

"And, come to think of it, if I get you that beer….you'll just have to pee again."

"Wyatt!"

He suddenly ducked his head, shyly. "Still willing to join me for that drink, even now?"

She smiled softly. "Yes. I'd like that. And I'll be right there. Now….get out."

"Yes, ma'am.

* * *

 _A/N 3 Okay, so I know the logistical question of bunker sleeping arrangements has been on all our minds. But let's give some thought to that other very-important bunker logistical question, shall we? 8 adults sharing one bathroom! And I hope that bunker has one heck of a strong septic system….or Rittenhouse isn't going to be their only issue._

 _A/N 4 I have an image in my head of them falling asleep together on the couch after that drink—migrating toward each other, and either being caught and rescued by Rufus….or caught and busted by Jessica. But that would be a whole other story…._


End file.
